When he left the room, Rowton rose from his chair by the fire, walked across the apartment and locked the door. Then stepping up to the uncarpeted portion of the room, he touched a secret spring, which immediately revealed a trap-door. There was a ladder beneath the door which led down into a cellar. Rowton gazed gloomily down for a moment. He then let the trap door fall into its place, and a moment or two later put out the lamp, lit a candle and went upstairs to his bedroom. He slept until late the following morning, and when he went downstairs between nine and ten, Samson was bringing his breakfast into the room. “That’s right,” said Rowton, “I am as hungry as a ferret. You can put it down; I shall wait on myself.” “You won’t forget that Scrivener is coming to-night?” “Am I likely to, when you remind me of the fact whenever you see me? You want me to help with the boxes; I’ll go down to the cellar with you after breakfast.” “As you please, sir, but if I were you I would not draw attention by taking a light there in the daytime.” “We need not have a light; we can move the boxes in the dark. Be sure, by the way, that you have the cart in good time at Mervyn station to-night.” “I forgot to say that Nelly has gone lame,” said Samson; “she hurt her hoof yesterday and won’t be good for anything for a few days.” “You must take Satyr, then.” “Satyr,” said the man, scratching his head in some perplexity; “he ain’t used to harness; he’ll fidget a good bit.” “Folly! don’t make obstacles; he’ll do very well. If anyone asks you about the boxes, say that I am getting some wine; the goods will come in wine cases, so your story will sound all right. By the way, Samson, I shall leave here by the two o’clock train. I am supposed to be on my way to Liverpool if anyone asks, but——” here Rowton’s voice dropped to a low whisper. Samson came close, bent his head slightly forward, listened with all his ears, and nodded once or twice emphatically. He was about to leave the room when he suddenly came back. “I forgot to tell you, sir, that old Dr. Follett is dead.” “Ah! how did you hear that?” asked Rowton, who was in the act of pouring out a cup of coffee. “The milkman brought me the news. He died between three and four this morning. The wench will be in a fine taking—she was bound up, they say, in that queer old character.” “That is enough, Samson; I prefer not to discuss Miss Follett. Thanks, you can leave me alone now.” When Samson withdrew, Rowton went calmly on with his breakfast. He then returned to his bedroom and completely altered his dress. His rough Norfolk suit was exchanged for that which a gentleman might wear in town. Five minutes later he issued from the Bungalow, looking like a very handsome, well set-up young man. Samson, who was grooming one of the horses, raised his head to watch him from behind the hedge. When he saw his master’s get-up, he grinned from ear to ear.